Who Am I
by Bard15
Summary: The team has been through a lot over the last six months and in the dark of the night...or the light of the day...it's all starting to overwhelm them. Just a stream of conscious from various character's POV...as they contemplate all they've been through between the Siderov case and Kensi's rescue in Afghanistan.
1. Chapter 1

"**Who Am I"**

Whether in the dead of night or the scorching light of day, a cacophony of disjointed and surreal images, overwhelming anxiety, and cold rage constantly wash over and through him as his mind continually assaults him with these phantasms of the last six months of his life…at this point he doesn't know anymore what's real and what's not; all he does know is that he is always, _always_ angry…_and always_…**afraid.**

…the torture he endured at the hands of Siderov; the reeling fear, the wrenching pain, the helplessness and uncertainty that followed…it is now a constant companion riding just under the surface.

…and the torture he…what _**he**_ did-for the sake of his…; he shook his head, as that cold terror and mindless rage of those last few hours in Afghanistan tore through him, threatening to drive him to the very precipice of his sanity. It staggered him what he now found himself capable off…whether for friend, lover or country, to him the reasons didn't matter. All that matters is the sickening terror it has left behind.

He looks down at his hands and contemplates with an almost clinical detachment. Yes, these hands have lashed out…marred flesh, drawn blood, caused pain. Yes, these hands have even killed-pulling a trigger and ending more than one life…was it justified? He always thought so…he was doing the work of the law. Evil, selfish people had to be stopped for the greater good of society. He had to do for the helpless what was never done for him, he had to know that it mattered. It was a messy and unpleasant affair, at times, to bring in the "bad guy". Not pleasant, but necessary…and the situations often gave him little option or leeway for mercy…where innocents were involved.

Innocence…he didn't even know what that was anymore. He vaguely recalled the team talking about the young girl that tried to kill them; how her innocence was used and twisted. At one time he would have supported Sam one hundred percent in his quest to help the girl. Now…_**now**_, he wasn't so sure. If another innocent girl stood between him and…he shook his head again, he didn't want to go down that road.

And mercy…justice…what exactly made actions "justified"? His actions did save his partner…**did**, in fact**,** save the team; hell, to read the mission reports-it saved the mission.

"_The Mission"_. His mind played over the disjointed pieces of "the mission": to locate and save who_**…"Jack"-**_his mind spit the name. Another phantom that had haunted him these few years, haunted his partner and kept her trapped in the past, unable to really move forward…to trust. It would be so, _so_ easy to direct all his rage towards "Jack"…even towards Hetty, for putting Kensi and the team in such an untenable situation.

But a small part of him, that part that made him such a good cop and a good man, rebelled at the idea. As with the girl, Jack, too, was a victim in all of this: and Hetty was doing what she always did-looking out for her own and what she believed was her responsibility, in her own twisted, master spy kind of way. So his rage had nowhere to go.

He looks at his hands again…turns them over and over as he contemplates his actions in that little hut. It wasn't Max or Sully or _**any**_ of the dozens of alias's and covers he had donned like a second skin through his years as a cop, detective and part time NCIS liaison…

_**No**_, the man who had wrapped that towel around an old, blind man's face; who had, in a manic and terrified rage, poured that bucket of water over the squirming and terrified man was none other than _Martin Deeks_…and that revelation alone left him more staggered and unbalanced than anything he had ever experienced in his entire life. Monica's accusations coming back to him in stark clarity…who was really responsible? Who was really behind the alias…the name; no matter which one was given.

He thought he knew evil…knew ruthlessness… Thought by now he had seen everything. He never really and truly understood the implications of the phrase…_'the end justifies the means'_, until now. And again he wonders…who decides what is 'justified'? Would he…could he, actually do something so extreme again…was he justified; or was the cost too high this time…how do you weigh one life against another…

In another life, he thought he had that answer…


	2. Sam's POV

Who Am I

Chapter 2

He still came to work…he still joked at inappropriate times to help ease the tension of the moment…he still did all those distinctly Deeks things to annoy and irritate.

But he wasn't here…not really; and not in the sense that really mattered, because he was no longer Deeks. No longer that annoying, loud mouthed, snarky detective that had finally managed to get under his skin…to finally find a place in his tight knit circle. No, this being before him was not Marty Deeks, but a parody of the man he used to be…timid, unsteady and riding a ragged edge.

To be fair about it, none of them were the same as they were this time last year…so very much had happened…to all of them. Even now he could see Callen still struggling with the fall out and guilt from the Siderov case: could see a fear and uncertainty, followed by a resigned understanding, in Kensi's eyes when she would look at her partner…those looks and feelings now tempered with an insider's knowledge of what it was to be truly helpless and afraid. And to top it off, his teammate now had the additional struggle of renewed feelings of hurt and betrayal as the identity of the White Ghost was revealed.

He was still uncertain how he felt about that…after all these years, for Jack to appear in their lives again. It left a hollow, roiling feeling in the pit of his stomach; it could have been any of them-himself, Steve…any of his old comrades. That insipid demon, PTSD-monsters that roamed freely through your daylight hours, not content with just invading your sleep. He truly wondered at what those demons were that led Jack down his path as he looked back at what he himself had endured and suffered these many years as an active SEAL and later as an agent.

So many of his fellows got lost in it…why hadn't he? He remembered what he had told Nate after Siderov… "…I can't help that guy that was sitting in the chair…I can only help the guy that is here now…"

He knew part of the answer…Michelle, his kids, his partner…his team…they helped him stay focused on now and future, not dwell on the damaging and futile 'what if's' of yesterday; but Jack had support…he had Kensi, who would have moved heaven and earth for him. So why had he succumb?

Sam shrugged his shoulders and guessed it was something as grotesquely simple as 'timing'…you had to be ready to face those demons, no one could face them for you; and no amount of love in the world can take you where you're not ready to go. But, Jack had finally found his peace, finally put his demons to rest in the very heart of the beast that took his soul from him.

So what about his team…were they ready to face their demons…were they ready to open up and trust one and other with their very souls. Their roads, their demons, their uncertainties were as the same as they were unique…what if they weren't ready to take that road together…or at the very least, go down that road at the same time, to get back to someplace they could be a team again.

No, he couldn't help yesterday's Deeks, or Kensi or Callen…but he could help the team he had now…today. He wasn't giving them up without a fight…and he didn't kid himself for a moment, he might still lose the fight, but no matter how long it took, he was not going to lose this war.

**.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.**

a/n: and the fight against the demons of PTSD are indeed all encompassing and insipid…many battles are lost, but still more can be won with patience and diligence: my daughter has been battling PTSD and bi-polar for more than half her life…it's not easy, it is daily, it is heart-wrenching and it is confusing as hell to those not suffering from it…but with the right combination of therapy and medications it can be surmounted. Just know, if you or a loved one are going through trying emotional times there can be light at the end of a long dark tunnel and that you will lose as many battles as you win…BUT, _you can win__!___


	3. Chapter 3

**Who Am I **

**Chapter 3: Callen**

It's late; real late…probably technically morning…but I haven't slept…cant' sleep, and _don't want_ to sleep most nights. If Sam knew that I was existing on less than my usual four hours a night; and that it was only because of super hi-test coffee (that would put even Deeks caffeine addiction to shame) and the job induced adrenalin, that I have been able to function these last six months, he would be in the market for a new partner.

My head is a scary, crowded place. So many nightmares…so many bad memories…so many horrific images seared and branded into my mind. Most of the time I can push all the crap of my past, my childhood…_this job_, into a box and bury it; not anymore. Not when I face those bad memories and bad choices every single day that I get up and come to work.

The decisions that used to come so easy, the risks I used to be willing to take; both with myself and my team-not so much anymore. This job… It's no secret or surprise, we've all been wrong; been played by our mark…been battered, bruised and beaten…threatened and even taken bullets that had some of us hovering just a little to near death's door. As sad as it is to say, _**it is**_ part of the business. But none of that…'_**none of it'**__**,**_ compares to knowing _it was my___decisions that caused _**brutal **_suffering, and near death to the people I call my team…call my friends.

I pull out my wallet and open it to stare at the picture. I've done that so many times in the last several months, trying to carve it into my memory; every line, every nuance…the happy smiles. But I can't. I can't keep the happiness in my memory…only the horrific. My eyes roam the picture…a little girl of eight…she's eying the candles on her birthday cake, a proud and loving papa stooping at his side; an expression so full of love and happiness not even the camera can truly measure it. In the background, almost too small to see because of the photo's size, is one of those bouncy playhouses, a light haired man and ebony woman can be seen to usher excited kids from the inflated toy to the table.

With the picture to guide me I can pull up those memories and with it a gentle smile…Sam's daughter's birthday party. It was a raucous affair…twenty some kids running around on a sugar high. Not normally my cup of tea, as Hetty might comment, but it was family…and I did enjoy it. Seeing Sam and Michelle…_**alive **_and _happy_ with their little girl…my honorary "niece. Looking at the picture of the smiling father and daughter I had to viciously wipe away moisture that had suddenly formed in my eyes. That I could have been responsible for taking that memory…that happiness, away from that little girl. It makes me physically ill and sends a wave of anxiety and rage rippling through me.

My eyes settle on the proud papa.

Sam…the man that has been more like a brother to me than a partner. Who, despite his rather rigid ways, still manages to balance me out; still manages to keep me grounded with some semblance of humanity…to not get lost in the games we play. He's a hard man at times, but he is a fair man; a man willing to own up to his mistakes and willing to stand on his principles, even with his back to the wall.

He's let me into his world. He shares the most precious thing he has with me; not out of pity, not out of duty or obligation…but out of genuine compassion. He can't imagine someone not given the opportunity to experience family. So, whether I was of a mind to accept or not, he freely shares his happiness with me. And I don't know if I can ever express my gratitude for that little bit of normalcy he allows me with his family.

And I almost lost that…

My eyes continue to wander over the photo, and I squint to make out fuzzy, background details. I have half a mind to take the photo to Eric to clean up and enlarge…but wouldn't that just raise the tech's eyebrows. No, don't need that kind of scrutiny or questioning looks from my team mates.

So, I squint at the blonde in the background, though too small to see, I know he has a wide open and genuine smile on his face. So much like the kids at the party. I have to wonder, when he sees happy, smiling children, secure in their knowledge that they are safe and loved, what he thinks, what he sees? Regret…remorse…maybe some righteous anger at all the unfairness and insecurity he had to suffer at the hands of his father. Or maybe relief…that these children don't know the horrors of an abusive parent. And the open, smile on his face answers that question and I envy him his ability to get past the horrors and not let those memories mold him into a bitter parody of his father; like I know I let the uncertainty and horrors shape me…to be untrusting, aloof…and alone.

But thoughts of our shared childhood horrors is not what has kept sleep even more elusive to me these many months.

Yes, he's a cop. Yes, he's taken his fair share of hits in the field long before he joined up with us. Despite, his lacksidasical attitude that he presents to the world…the man does know his stuff. I will never dispute his skills…nor that fact that he has picked up and honed skills that would make him a fine agent; but, until that time that he turns in his LAPD badge, he is a civilian.

I do love the little tyke, so much like her daddy it's scary at times. But what really had me smiling that day was Deeks. We came to close to losing him and Sam to Siderov and the aftermath of that whole disastrous op. The detective had come up against things he had never experienced before in all his time as a cop or "liaison"…but perhaps his biggest wound was not from the terror and torture at the hands of a mad man, but from the wounds delivered by his own team. In those weeks the team recuperated…the detective pulled further and further away from us…even Hetty wasn't sure he would return-to us or even to the PD. But, he pulled himself together, drawing on that deep inner strength his childhood had forged in him and he came back to us; only to be dealt a near devastating set-back with the reassignment of his partner. I just shake my head at how fucked our lives have become in the last six months.

I am appalled that he was alone, without any support, when he saw those photos. I know what it did to Sam and I. Had us shaking our heads in stubborn denial, seething with anger that had no outlet and pain that cut us to the core. I can't imagine the shock and pain it must have brought to Deeks to see Kensi's lifeless body…blood surrounding her like a morbid halo. But he pulled it together…kept it together and saved our asses…so it wasn't one of my better ideas, but we were out of options. I haven't really seen the report, and he hasn't offered up any boasts or explanations of exactly how he knew our exact location…how he knew we were in deep shit.

At first, I just chalked it up to the long hard months of Kensi's absence, of still recuperating from Siderov and the off-balance of our team's dynamic. The shock of hearing that Kensi's mission had gone sideways only to be confronted with those photos and then finding out Kensi was alive; finding out that Jack was alive. The awkward phase were all in now as we try, again, to reconnect. _**Just all of it**_! But now, weeks later, I'm not so sure. He hasn't been the same since we got back and I can't quite put my finger on why or even how he is different…he's just not Deeks.

He now has this guarded and hooded look that wasn't even there after he come back after Siderov. His demeanor, to those that know him, is more subdued…his words and actions more calculated than natural. Even his "thing" with Kensi seems forced, like it is expected so he goes through the motions…especially after they spent so long with the rogue agent from our last case…I need to watch those interrogation videos…something set both he and Kensi into a tailspin.

Maybe I just need to give him, them…us, more time. It's not like we don't all have major demons to wrestle into a dark recess of our minds…that old wounds, ripped and bloodied, need time to scab over and scar; because, for us, nothing ever really heals…only managed.

For myself…time won't matter. The masks and barriers won't matter. I know what I did…know that I will face the consequences of my decisions everyday…in the haunted faces of my team.


	4. Chapter 4

Who Am I

Chapter 4: Granger

He tosses the report on the desk to land amidst more than a dozen files already scattered there. Quite a read… He sat back and steepled his fingers and just stared at the array of manila folders like they would explain it all…make sense of everything they'd been through the last few months.

He was always fascinated by the undertones and nuances given to in the mission reports by each participant. You could tell a lot about a person…there frame of mind, by what they had written-or hadn't written, on the pages. Though they were all there…each story was unique in its interpretation; almost like they had all been on their own, personal mission.

And with a tired sigh he contemplated…perhaps they had been. Though they all wanted the same outcome, the reasons were all different…and those reasons are what give one the stamina and fortitude to succeed or fail on any given mission.

The mission was counted a success by the higher ups...nearly everyone who had a stake in its outcome came away with some prize-consolation or otherwise. But for the first time in a long time he wondered…was it all worth it? Dangerous thoughts for one in his position. And all because of one particular file he had just read…from the interpreter left behind with the detective.

That one particular file had him frowning…not just for its starkness of words, but for the unexpected brutality contained within it. Wholly unexpected…even somewhat frightening; and it left him with feelings of uncertainty he wasn't used to.

His mind opened up a floodgate of memories…past missions and the things that didn't make it into his own mission reports. In the heat of the moment…in life or death struggles, one's mind is not exactly picking out the words for the 'After Action Report', nor considering that the incidents would be written by multiple people from multiple perspectives. Those words come later when one has to contemplate and justify their actions made instantaneously and most commonly under extreme conditions. That's when you find out if your team really has your back…there are things that happen in the field that would not translate well to the stark black and white of a retelling surrounded by safety and second guessing.

Apparently the detective was also aware of that point.

He knew Henrietta had read the reports thoroughly, had put the pieces together; and just a few short years ago he might have known how she would react. He used to be able to read her and respond to her subtle signals with the same ease as Sam and Callen seemed to work. Now, not so much.

Ever since she retired from active field work to take this job at the Office of Special Projects…ever since she formed this rather odd and mismatched team, that still had him shaking his head at times: ever since then, he looked at his former on again, off again field partner and saw a stranger.

So, what does she think of her team now, he wondered. Her manipulations brought her and them to this point: a point he wasn't sure they could return with any sense of balance and team…any sense of trust.

Callen, as team leader, would be privy to the reports by his team…not of the support personnel. And he was pretty sure Hetty wouldn't make them available, should Callen even consider to ask. It wasn't hard for either of the seasoned agents to see the guilt Callen still carried for the Siderov case…Hetty would see to it that the guilt was not magnified by what lay in the interpreters report.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the jumble of thoughts going through his head after reading the agents and support personnel's words. It saddened him somewhat that this could be the lynch pin that finally pulled this unique team apart.

While he had had some very serious doubts at the beginning; over the years, he had witnessed this team pull off eleventh hour saves…seen them drive themselves, and each other to the edge to get a job done. He had observed and decoded their subtle language of team dynamic… the "dance" of words and actions the team employed to keep each other human, focused…and alive.

But after Afghanistan…after Siderov….after the build-up, over the years, of subtle missteps and growing misgivings he wasn't sure this team could find its footing again.

But he had to give them that chance to heal…to face their inner demons and decide what to do with them and come back together on their own terms. He would watch with curiosity, over the next several months, as to what manipulations the operations manager would employ to pull this unique team back…

He wasn't sure whether he would applaud her skills or be appalled by her manipulations of people she professed to care for deeply. He shook his head again…to much pretending, too much pushing down who they really were…too much, too much of having to pull out the worst of themselves to stay one step ahead of their adversaries.

Shaking his head, he pulled together the files and dropped them in a side drawer…closed and purposefully turned the lock… No, he and Hetty had been in the game to long…saw too much during their years.

They couldn't be redeemed…but maybe, just maybe, this unique team might be saved….


End file.
